StarryEyed Creatures
by Nins
Summary: A scrap of the story, a bit of the drama, shared by everyone's least favorite courtesan. Oneshot.


A/N: Hi all. I'm a long time fan, first time Moulin Rouge fanfic writer. So, using your excellent skills of deduction, you might say that this is my first Moulin Rouge fic ever. Anyway, feel free to critique or whatever. After all, we're all here to improve, right?

Disclaimer: Moulin Rouge not mine.

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Some windmill out there. It's the damn near oldest thing in the Moulin Rouge, but it's still the only being here willing to still move. Winter time freezes the air till it feels like everything's still, but now we don't even need it. We've all been dying. Our fingers are blue; there's ice under every poor eyelid in the nightclub. The Moulin Rouge has become a lonely place. Not much left. Not much of me or Zidler or the world left. Starry-eyed little creatures are gone, instead, humans lie here.

The condition outside is far worse, judging by what I can see through the holes in the wall. Everyone is starving. The life in the wind is disappeared. Beggars beg from other beggars, and they do not even have the rotten bread we former courtesans feast on. Today I saw a child beaten and killed for his pocket change. Children mean nothing to me. But today I damn near wept. Montmartre has sunken to the lowest low while the rest of the world laughs on.

The tiny bedroom of our _lovely _former star courtesan is duller and sadder than what I'd seen through the keyhole. Yes, there are still rare red silks and jewelry- gifts from grateful clients- and a wooden vanity parked sweetly in the corner, but the little cages hanging around the room had rusted over and the dead, neglected birds inside had rotten away. I had seen the door slightly open, so I decided to use it as a shelter.

Hell. It's quite the warmest room in the Moulin Rouge. It still smells of her perfumes and maybe even her soft, singing breath.

Ever since Satine's death, everyone in the village had all but shut down. My friends, the courtesans, the dancers, could no longer perform in our club-turned-theater. Some left, some stayed, some went missing, some simply died. The Duke, after hearing of her demise, packed up all of his shiny pretty things and left without another word, draining Montmartre of all its former riches. The children of the revolution stopped visiting. And the survivors and I were left alone.

Many courtesans, with me, still lived on in the Moulin Rouge. Nobody ever came, and what was once the firelight and treasure of a village at war with itself was now a place for squatters. The Moulin Rouge was my home, _our _home, the home of the damned and the dying and the left behind in the stampede for the exit.

I did not even bother to run for it- there was nothing left outside this nightclub to look for, no life, no purpose.

I am tired. It has been so long since something exciting has happened, and all I have left with me is this damned, dirty soul. I am not even beautiful anymore, only sick. I've been coughing from the cold, and every time my head falls back to the pillow something sharp hits me from behind. But I don't care for it any longer.

It was the gun the duke had used in his attempt to kill the Shakespeare boy. In a rare walk outside the Moulin Rouge, I found it sitting neatly by a sewer opening, scratched and made ugly but not completely destroyed. I stood there for a while, stunned; it bore the crest of the fool Duke, some silly little curly design with letters.

I could not read, only recognize. I was sure it was the same gun that was thrown out the glass window, tossed out of the theater. It glowed like fire and Hell against the stony Heaven of the village streets.

I took it home with me. What else could I do with it? I couldn't sell it- nobody would want to buy a badly smashed gun. There was no use in trying to return it; it was useless now, and the Duke could be anywhere in the damn world.

But of course, I could always use the thing myself. It was heavy enough to tell me that it still had at least a bullet left, and you never know when something as brutal and as rough as a gun could be useful to a lady.

With my free hand, I slowly reach up and under my pillow to touch the gun lightly, just to tell myself that it is still there and hasn't disappeared without me knowing it did. Oh, I am crazy. I _am_ crazy. I'd been crazy for all the years of my life, and everyone knows it. We are all going insane. Life was never fair, and it found amusement in playing around with its pawns.

I am going to keep the gun, for whatever would happen for the rest of my life. And I promised myself that I was going to _use _it. It was no problem for me to do such a thing. Besides, it wouldn't be my first time to kill some poor thing.

Since Satine's death, many had blamed me for such a horrible thing. Many have blamed the whispers I gave to the Duke, and many have blamed the words I gave the Shakespeare boy on the Night of Seduction. I was now this sort of reincarnation of evil- the Satan of the Moulin Rouge, scheming and dreaming and plotting to ruin the lives of any other promising young courtesan of the old nightclub.

I did not care for Satine. For others, she was the sparkling diamond of the dance hall, the village. For me, she was a stiff, rigid statue, standing in the sun and blocking my path to life. _Having _a life. _Living _a life. She was an obstacle. She enjoyed the glamour of diamonds and attractive young princes, while others faded in the blackish backdrop behind the spotlight. We were figures and not humans.

We were _less _than figures. We were shapeless forms. And apparently, I was the only one who noticed it.

I do not regret my whispers. I do not regret my words. Everyone else did, not me. I was selfish and manipulative, I can say, but only because I wanted to have a true life beyond the stretching shadow of a glittering diamond named Satine. Everyone else was content with second-best. And they said that because of me, I had made the Moulin Rouge lose its freedom, beauty, truth and love. I guess I sure as hell did.

Zidler was the most affected by Satine's death. His hair became a colorless gray in two short days, his eyes swollen from tears and grief and the wrinkles in his tired face deepening to his skull. He was losing his sanity; he was losing himself. He took Satine's body away himself. Nobody knew where he'd buried it, where he'd hidden it. And nobody ever asked.

The Diamond Dogs were wise enough to keep away from such prying questions, to leave Zidler alone in his dusty, fragile peace until he could accept the always looming offer to die.

I do not know what is going to happen. What will become of my friends, what of the Moulin Rouge, what of me?

Oftentimes, when sleep is clouding my head and my body is numb with cold, I wish slightly that there really _were _a god. Then at least, we would know what lies beyond a coffin, what lies beyond our soil-made skeletons. Alas, I cannot say I am afraid of the future, only that I am unsure. There are so many possibilities, the most believable being the darkest.

But I will hold on – hold on till my death, just to see what will happen. I have no damn idea if I can live on any longer, yet I do. Because I wait. I wait for destiny.

The old, rickety door opens slowly, in comes a tall, shady figure, casting a shadow across Satine's room. I squint at first, but adjust. It is he.

"I thought you'd left already," I say, yawning a little to keep away any tears that might come.

"I want to stay little longer… to bring more." His eyes are swollen and sleepy; he rubs at them. I figure he'd just woken from another faint. In his hand he holds a bulky green bag.

"That doesn't sound like you," I shift my head to rest on the silk pillow. "It sounds like Toulouse. Speaking of which, what of the little runt?"

He takes a deep breath. His presence alone has brought this rough, foreign scent to the room – I do love it. I almost wish that he'd stay instead.

"Toulouse comes with us too. We will go to travel Europe," he rubs at his eyes again. He hasn't shaved, I can see it. He looks as if every part of his body aches, despite the long journey to come. His thick fingers are wrapped strongly, determinedly to the handle of his bag.

Gods, what am I doing? I stare at him, I observe him, I bring out every single little detail of him despite having an entire year to do so, when I paid attention only to his dances on the Moulin Rouge floor, or the texture of his skin against mine. I know that I will miss him. Truly.

"…And what of Shakespeare?" I ask curiously. I had not seen the boy since… a very long time ago.

"He comes with us," he replies simply, and that is all I need to know.

"Well then… best you be off. The safest of journeys for you."

He does not smile at my attempt to be light. Oh, I wish he would smile, just one more time. But, I lost my chance so long ago.

The man I once loved, once cared for, turns around, about to leave. Yet, I can nearly sense the force that is pulling him back, pulling him to stay in the Moulin Rouge. But both of us know it is not destiny. I hold my breath, waiting to see his decision.

He takes another step away from me, and against my head I feel the outline of my gun under my pillow, cold and hard, suddenly new again.

The Argentinean sighs a little, heavy and dark. "…Take care of yourself, Nini."

I know I will.


End file.
